The most asked question of me is “what was your finest moment?”
Although you’ll go on to read that signing for the Seattle Sounders turned out to be my most life changing experience, in football terms I had the most bizarre and mind blowing week of my life in March 1975. After a disastrous spell at Chelsea I finally found the real player inside me and that was because I found the real manager in Tony Waddington.
After a disastrous spell at Chelsea I finally found the real player inside me and that was because I found the real manager in Tony Waddington. Anyhow, in this particular week we faced Manchester City at home and Derby County, the eventual champions, away, with the World Champions in between, although going into the Manchester City match I had no idea that I’d be facing Franz Beckenbauer, a dream on its own – as he was my ultimate footballer. We beat Manchester City 4-0 and after the match I travelled to London after a night in The Place drinking champagne with a couple of team-mates. On turning up at the hotel in London the following morning, I found the usual faces waiting around as if owning the place. You know those players that got seventy, eighty, ninety caps and never won anything – Bobby Moore had been retired by now.
The next thing I remember was watching the previous day’s football and one of the players laughing at my goal, where I ran through the Manchester City defence, where I had only the former Stoke City defender Mike Doyle between me and their goalkeeper. The only part I saw of their goal was the corner and decided to curl it there, and that was what happened, with the laughing point the ball barely reaching the back of the net. It was then that I prayed that Revie picked me to play on that Wednesday night to show it was no fluke, and twenty-four-hours my prayer was answered when the former Leeds United manager chose me to fail – or so he thought. I was most definitely a man under severe pressure because he was not on his own, which I took as a massive incentive. I went into the match with Revie saying “Remember what these bastards did to us in the war” which made me chuckle as I walked out into the Wembley tunnel next to Alan Ball, our lone World Cup winning survivor, and saw Franz standing there in his dazzling Green German shirt.
I thought for a moment that “If only I was playing on your side against Revie” and then walked up that most famous of tunnels focusing on the match ahead. The match went as planned, as the rain had swamped the pitch which made life so much easier for my chronic ankle injury. I left the dressing room without a “well done” from the manager, but weren’t bothered because I was going to see the man responsible for all of this, my father Bill. My Dad was in the Long Bar. I looked at him as he was talking to some strangers, who no doubt never believed that he was who he said he was, and on looking him in the eye threw my mud splattered shirt at him saying “You always said I’d do it, well I’ve done it, it’s yours”. After spending the next few hours with Alan Ball and three Germans in the Val Bonne Club, I found myself leaving the Candy Box Club in Kingly Street at 6am with a beautiful blonde on my arm having left those three Germans behind me in the bar, much like earlier on.
You might say that my week was going well. I arrived back at my family home in that Chelsea prefab at 10.30am where my Uncle George and Tommy Mason were waiting for me to come home, only eight hours late. A quarter-of-an-hour later we were in the Kings Arms continuing to celebrate, although the only dampener up to this point is that this was where I had my wedding reception five years prior. We drank champagne and Red Barrel and at three=o=clock I finally got some sleep on my mother’s settee. You might remember that photograph taken with that number10 England shirt thrown over me and a pair of old boots on the floor. It was Thursday afternoon around 5 when I woke and I realized that I had to get back to Stoke because we were playing at Derby on Saturday. I said to Bill, “Come on Dad come back with me and I’ll get you a lift to Derby on Saturday” which he did. At 8pm I was in my local pub in Barlaston and was welcomed by all of those who had doubted my promise that if I played I’d show Revie a thing or two. After training on Friday in our famous old gymnasium, where I needed a couple of bin bags to sweat the access alcohol out of my system – which was an impossibility – I remember sitting in a hotel in Derby watching the highlights of the match on Wednesday with my name being rang out round the room like a Fire Engine. That meant that I had several of my team mates were not fans of mine. Anyhow, this was day seven of the most exciting week of my life and although I had only had a few hours’ sleep I knew that in the kind of form I was in we could overcome the upcoming champions.
We won a match on a pitch that was seen at Cheltenham Racecourse three days earlier as “bottomless” meaning that it was like Brighton or for the sake of my favourite racehorse Red Rum, Southport Beach. This was to become my third faultless performance in 7 days with only Jimmy Greenhoff getting anywhere close to me with a stunning couple of goals that proved to be winners. I sat in the away dressing room thinking that life could get no better. To say I was totally worn-out was something of an understatement, and I thought for a split second, much like George Best. “Was it the three most important matches of my life or the blonde?” I walked through the tiny corridor towards the Players Bar, where I could stand and look Brian Clough in the eye, which was something special, knowing that I had completed the most remarkable of weeks playing our game. All of a sudden a man approached me with a microphone and said “Alan do you mind having a few words for Radio Derby?” to which I smiled. His first question was “Please tell us about your performance on Wednesday night against West Germany” and I took a deep breath and said, “That’s history mate what about my performance today after a hectic week, we just played brilliantly on a pitch not fit for carthorse”.
There are some things that can never be bettered and when I came round after my 59-day coma I looked for inspirations, and this was, along with Papillon, the top of my list, thinking to myself, “Any man who can do that, can get out of this mess”, and that was the way it worked out. Friday 7 August 2015
This was the opening for my night at the Birches Head Pub in the Potteries tonight, so you might say my inspiration still remains and each day when I’m in trouble health-wise I try to sit down and reach out for good reason to try to enjoy my day. This morning it worked, after a few weeks of recovering from yet another infection – but you always ask yourself, as the little old porter said to George “Where did it all go wrong?”
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